Set Free to Heaven Do not wander from heaven’s might Silently, strafing and cautiously run Set free to heaven by a killer’s night Your scared so you flee from your awaiting light The rush of sanctuary is as nice as a nun Do not wander from heaven’s might
Love ones worry, and can’t feel alright They cry and wonder “Where is his son” Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
Lives are hurt and never right Some will wander, and are never done Do not wander from heaven’s might For some will not stand the sight of this time, where the killer has won Set free to heaven by a killer’s night This death is just life’s rite Grave eyes, coming from the devil’s gun Set free to heaven by a killer’s night We all lose the living fight
You continue on, from life you are shunned Do not wander from heaven’s might Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
Sometimes waiters will be the ones to undergo the Arduous work of making the Luscious-tasting Salsa using the salsa maker that is as awesome as a jet pack. Always efficient, the salsa maker can give one so much joy that it will
Make one scream “Acelsior!” due to pure salsa making awesomeness. This beauty is known to Keep families together just by the sheer love. Everybody on Earth needs to be privileged by a salsa maker, for they Remain one of the world’s most amazing pieces of plastic on Earth.
Once we started
Our journey at sea
Our minds were ecstatic,
Now we were free
Our Journey at sea
No boundaries or limitations,
Now we were free,
Life for us had just begun.
No boundaries or limitations,
We sailed on, saying goodbye
Life for us had just begun.
Now we were free
Our minds were ecstatic
Life for us had just begun
Once we started.
Poem That Wasn't Written by Me:
Across the Bay By Donald Davie A queer thing about those waters: there are no Birds there, or hardly any. I did not miss them, I do not remember Missing them, or thinking it uncanny. The beach so-called was a blinding splinter of limestone, A quarry outraged by hulls. We took pleasure in that: the emptiness, the hardness Of the light, the silence, and the water’s stillness. But this was the setting for one of our murderous scenes. This hurt, and goes on hurting: The venomous soft jelly, the undersides. We could stand the world if it were hard all over.
A poem that I thought you might like:
Birches by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to the left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust---
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for so long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
By I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows---
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found for himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one by hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth a while
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Set Free to Heaven
Do not wander from heaven’s might
Silently, strafing and cautiously run
Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
Your scared so you flee from your awaiting light
The rush of sanctuary is as nice as a nun
Do not wander from heaven’s might
Love ones worry, and can’t feel alright
They cry and wonder “Where is his son”
Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
Lives are hurt and never right
Some will wander, and are never done
Do not wander from heaven’s might
For some will not stand the sight
of this time, where the killer has won
Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
This death is just life’s rite
Grave eyes, coming from the devil’s gun
Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
We all lose the living fight
You continue on, from life you are shunned
Do not wander from heaven’s might
Set free to heaven by a killer’s night
Sometimes waiters will be the ones to undergo the
Arduous work of making the
Luscious-tasting
Salsa using the salsa maker that is as awesome as a jet pack.
Always efficient, the salsa maker can give one so much joy that it will
Make one scream
“Acelsior!” due to pure salsa making awesomeness. This beauty is known to
Keep families together just by the sheer love.
Everybody on Earth needs to be privileged by a salsa maker, for they
Remain one of the world’s most amazing pieces of plastic on Earth.
Poem That Wasn't Written by Me:
Across the Bay
By Donald Davie
A queer thing about those waters: there are no
Birds there, or hardly any.
I did not miss them, I do not remember
Missing them, or thinking it uncanny.
The beach so-called was a blinding splinter of limestone,
A quarry outraged by hulls.
We took pleasure in that: the emptiness, the hardness
Of the light, the silence, and the water’s stillness.
But this was the setting for one of our murderous scenes.
This hurt, and goes on hurting:
The venomous soft jelly, the undersides.
We could stand the world if it were hard all over.
A poem that I thought you might like:
Birches by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to the left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust---
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for so long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
By I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows---
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found for himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one by hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth a while
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.